Page 4 of Finding Silence
It forces me out of the house all right; I’ve been having to chase that damn goat all over the county a couple of times a week. I’m starting to see why the previous owners got rid of him, they should’ve called him Houdini instead of Angus. So far, I haven’t found a way to keep him contained. At least not for long.
When I walk out with the large roll of galvanized fencing wire and the lumber on a cart, I realize it would’ve been smarter to bring the pickup. I’m gonna have to open the tailgate window on my 1996 Bronco to stick the lumber out.
“Let me give you a hand.”
A pimple-faced kid in an orange apron walks up and starts lifting lumber from my cart. Do I really look that dang old already? It’s on my tongue to tell him I don’t need help, but the truth is, loading it on the cart caused that damn chest pain to flare up already.
Five minutes later I’m all set, the kid even strung a little red flag from the protruding two-by-fours, and threw me a little salute when I palmed him five bucks for the help.
This entire morning has not put me in the best of moods, which is questionable on a good day. Then there’s the frustration of trying to drive in the big city, where every moron is in a hurry and thinks they’re Chad Little racing for the finish line. Although, very few of the millennials crowding the roads these days would remember the NASCAR driver, let alone that he’s actually from here.
My mood hasn’t improved much on the rest of the way home, so when I drive up my road and pass by what should be an empty house to see an old ratty school bus parked in front, I slam on my brakes and throw open my door.
All I can see is the bottom half of what I assume to be a woman sticking out from under the bus, judging by the ankle bracelet and purple-painted toenails on her flip-flop-wearing feet. Although, I guess it might not be safe to assume anything anymore. I briefly register the jeans she’s wearing are as beaten up as her bus is.
“Hey, this is private property!” I bark, clearly startling the woman who scrambles out from under her bus.
She looks like she’s a leftover from the seventies, except I don’t think people dyed their hair purple then. Her hair is mostly gray, a riot of untamed curls, which turns purple toward the ends, and she has an orange pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
She’s smiling, and for some reason that gets me even more riled up.
“This here is private property,” I repeat in a growl, planting my fists on my hips.
The purple-haired woman mimics me and starts laughing.
“I know it is.”
She pokes her chest with an index finger and leans forward.
“Mine.”
Chapter 2
Phil
* * *
Good Lord, the veins on the man’s forehead are about to pop.
Someone needs one of my green butter, white chocolate, macadamia cookies. I bet that would get him relaxed in a hurry.
“Bullshit,” he barks in response to my declaration this is my property.
If not for his ornery disposition and piss-poor manners, he seems to be quite a handsome man. He reminds me a little of one of those cowboy heroes of old, with the hint of salt-and-pepper hair peeking out from under the dusty Stetson, the laugh lines carved deep into weathered skin, brass buckle on his belt to keep the well-worn jeans in place, and those steel-blue eyes matching the color of his chambray shirt.
Yeah, discarding the attitude, he’d make for a fantastic muse. I feel a soulful ballad coming on.
But first let me try to salvage what I can of this situation, because I would not be surprised if this angry man turned out to be the distant neighbor Rowan mentioned last week.
“Let me guess,” I open with what I hope is a disarming smile. “You must be the sheriff of this beautiful town. Allow me to introduce myself…”
I shove a hand in his direction, but he looks at it like I’m spreading a communicable disease. Too late I notice it’s covered in guck from the leaking oil pan I was checking out. It’s probably a worn-out gasket, which wouldn’t be the first time, but it means I’ll have to find a good mechanic willing to take her on—my skills only go so far—and find myself another set of wheels right away.
I notice he’s staring at me with one eyebrow raised, and I realize my mind drifted off—which it is wont to do—before I could finish telling the man who I am.
“My name is Phil Dubois, and I’m sorry if I surprised you by being here. I did, in fact, purchase this property and I just received the keys this morning.”
I dig into my jeans pocket and produce the house keys, jiggling them to illustrate. But he’s not looking at them, he’s studying me, his eyes narrowed to slits.
